


Sylvie's

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Sylvie runs a guesthouse and cafe, which is a little bit alive, there are cats, and Porthos likes the sunshine. Athos is generally bad tempered.





	Sylvie's

Sylvie’s running a little late. She races down the stairs, skirts in one hand, trying to tie her hair up one-handed with the other. She gets the elastic around her curls as she turns the corner of the stairs and, about to the burst out from her private rooms into the guesthouse hallway, the stairs stop short before the bottom. 

 

“Right,” Sylvie says, and sprints back up to get her shoes and turns off the shower. 

 

The shower has a habit of coming back on, she has to remember to turn it off twice. And then sometimes she has to remind it that, contrary to its belief, it is neither the heart nor the god of the house. She tests telling it off in pig Latin today. Last week she tried Welsh. So far the most effective has been when Athos came and signed at it in BSL. 

 

“You don’t even have eyes,” Sylvie scolds. 

 

She remembers she’s late, twists her hair up while she’s still, picks up her skirts and runs down the stairs. She’s allowed to reach the bottom this time and bursts out into the front hall. Aramis is sat behind the desk, feet up on the gate between the desk and the entry lobby, mobile phone between his cheek and his ear, eating a blueberry muffin. He spots Sylvie and drops the phone, the muffin, and his feet from the divider, sitting up straight and pretending to be a ordinary respectable person. 

 

“Is that one of Athos’s? He’ll kill you for dropping it,” Sylvie says. “Is that work?”

 

“No,” Aramis says, grinning, scooping up his phone and the muffin. “And no.”

 

“He’ll kill you for going to the co-op again, then,” Sylvie says. “Feet off the furnishings.”

 

“Two checkouts this morning,” Aramis says. “One already left. I sent Rochelle up to do the room.”

 

“Tha-”

 

“Seeing as you were not here,” Aramis says. “Athos is cross.”

 

“About the muffin?”

 

“About the muffin.”

 

Sylvie leans over the desk to gather the post, and then goes through the door, the big ‘Sylvie’s; sign swinging gently in the non-breeze. She gives it a friendly glare and it stills. The front room with the cash till is empty except for Constance reading, and the middle room is empty but for Rosie the cat, the big fat black animal asleep on the sofa in the sun spot from the window. The conservatory is not empty. Porthos is in there, sitting in the sunniest bit of the room, Goliath curled in his lap. She’s a tiny little cream fluff ball, and he’s… not either of those things. 

 

“Morning,” Sylvie says. 

 

“Athos is cross,” Porthos says, not looking up. “House is flirty.”

 

“Mm. Noticed,” Sylvie says. “Muffins?”

 

“Nope. He’s made peace with the Co-Op,” Porthos says.

 

He hums and bites his lip, not looking up from Goliath, and then shifts so his ankle is stuck out. His bandaged ankle. Sylvie rolls her eyes and drops the Guardian and the New Scientist on his table, promises to bring him a French presse, and then ducks back into the kitchen. Athos is standing by the window, all five feet six inches of him, arms crossed, brows lowered. Anita is trembling before him, the two halves of a plate in her hands. 

 

“Just dump it and keep washing,” Sylvie says. “No rush yet, but there will be soon. It’s Sunday, and it’s coming up on eleven. That means brunch. Is d’Artagnan in yet?”

 

“He’s late,” Athos says, not letting go his glare as Anita bins the plate and goes back to the sink, finishing loading the sterilizer. “Maybe he saw a jay and got distracted and rode his bike into the canal.”

 

“Is that what happened?” Sylvie asks, laughing. This is not the first time Porthos has ended up in the canal. Athos raises his eyes from Anita to Sylvie. 

 

“No,” He says. Sylvie tips her head in question and clears her throat when an explanation isn’t forthcoming. A very brief flash of amusement passes over his face before it sets again. “He got out of the canal, fished out his bike, then saw the jay again and stepped backwards, caught the edge of the sandbag cement things, tried to save himself, twisted his ankle, and then fell back in.”

 

“Oh dear,” Sylvie says, trying to stop her lips twitching. 

 

“Go on. Laugh,” Athos says. 

 

Sylvie laughs, and rushes forward to embrace him, kissing each of his cheeks joyfully. d’Artagnan interrupts, barrelling in with apologies, whirling around the kitchen to clean his hands, tie his hair up and pull on a cap, and grab some gloves. He’s slicing and dicing before Sylvie’s fully pulled away from Athos’s space. Athos follows her and holds her arm a moment. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, looking down in exasperation. 

 

Sylvie looks down too. His little bit of floor is humped, tipping him forward into her, making him a little taller. Sylvie laughs and gives the floor a pat with her foot. She has work, Athos has work. The floor flattens and ripples with a slight grumble. Sylvie kisses Athos’s cheek and turns, leaving them to their kitchen. She sits with Porthos in the sun. He has a knack of finding the spot which’ll be most sunny and stay most sunny. He’s buried in the New Scientist, now, his phone out, reading two things at once. Sylvie goes through the post, sorting it quickly and dumping a pile aside to deal with later. She opens the bills first, and then she looks up. Porthos is watching her, finally looking up from cat, phone and magazine. He’s grinning. 

 

“What?” she asks. 

 

“Nothing,” Porthos says, tapping at his phone. 

 

“You’re texting Athos, aren’t you?” Sylvie says. “What did he say?”

 

“Nothing,” Porthos says, then makes the mistake of looking up and can’t help grinning, helplessly fond and open and managing to hide absolutely nothing. His eyes flick up to her hair. “Uh, okay. Told you house is flirty. Your hair.”

 

He turns the phone and takes a photo and hands it over for her inspection. She looks, and sighs. Instead of the simple twist and plain black elastic, her hair is tied up with a colourful silk. 

 

“I knew it felt weird,” Sylvie says, reaching up. 

 

“It looks good,” Porthos says. Sylvie pauses. “Yeah. Nice.”

 

“Right,” Sylvie says, and leaves it. She continues with the post. He’s still watching her. She sighs and looks up again. “Yes?”

 

“I like it here,” Porthos says. 

 

Sylvie smiles, and Porthos goes back to stroking Goliath. Sylvie remembers her promise of a French presse and goes to get one and two mugs. She sits with him for an hour, drinking coffee and going through things. d’Artagnan brings her the order book, and there’s the post. She reads bits of Porthos’s paper, too. Eventually, though, the room gets busy and she gets up, heading out to help Constance, checking in on Athos, going to the front to give Aramis his lunch break. She does a few bills while she’s at the computer, and then there’s the lunch rush which lasts until three, four check ins, and a call from the Tourist Information Centre looking for en-suit rooms for tomorrow night. She’s busy until six, at which point she manages to poke her head back into the cafe. Sylvie’s has been shut for half an hour but Porthos is still sat in the garden. Goliath has deserted him, but Rosie’s out there at his feet. Sylvie goes out, but pauses when she sees Athos is sat there with them. 

 

“Enough coffee for three?” she checks, and waits for them to turn welcoming smiles on her before joining them. Sometimes they like their intimacy unbroken by her. Not now, though. She slumps down next to Athos and sighs, kicking off her shoes. The door opens and Kix, d’Artagnan’s spaniel, comes padding out. “Was she in the kitchen?”

 

“No, sitting with Constance,” Porthos says. Sylvie pats her knee and the dog comes over, happy to be petted. “I’m heading home soon. Got most of that essay done.”

 

“Do you want to get dinner later?” Athos asks, abruptly. 

 

Sylvie glances over to see who he’s asking. He’s glowering straight ahead, though, and giving no clues. She catches Porthos’s eye, who shrugs. They both agree, and Athos gives one of his genuine rushed smiles before getting up and going inside. Porthos tips Athos’s coffee cup up and shakes it before filling it and passing it to her. 

 

“Right, good cleaning,” Sylvie says, taking a sip.

 

“Do you think he’s gonna pay, tonight?”

 

“No. He never does,” Sylvie says. 

 

Porthos smiles, tipping his head back. He sits with her for ten minutes before getting up too and limping off, calling goodbyes into the kitchen. He lives a few doors down, and he pops his head out of his back door and waves from his patio, just visible over the hedges and fences between them. Sylvie raises her coffee cup high enough for him to see her reply, then settles back to enjoy her coffee, before finishing up for the day and passing the front desk over to Treville, who takes the night shifts and doubles as vague but effective security. Sometimes snoozing security. Sylvie leaves Kix, forgotten by d’Artagnan (she’s as much a house dog as the cats by now. d’Artagnan really shouldn’t be a dog owner), with Treville to help out and then heads upstairs. There are less stairs than usual, and she gives the house a tired and grateful pat. Her carpet is deeper, and the floor slopes gently to her bed. As she passes, it tips her in. She laughs and gets back up, giving a stamp to keep house in check. She has a date, it’s not bedtime  _ yet _ . Maybe later. Maybe with Athos. House goes very still and silent, fleeing the room and giving her privacy. 


End file.
